To persons who are not
directly interested in, or, to speak more correctly, who do not devote
attention to, economic subjects, the history of banking sometimes seems
rather a dry subject. Unlike political history, it does not present an
absorbing series of national and world-wide convulsions, involving
wholesale slaughter and indescribable misery, and producing innumerable
instances of heroism and intellectual greatness. Even ecclesiastical
history supplies thrilling narratives of cruelty and oppression, which
rival romance, and, at all times, enlists the liveliest enthusiasm in
the battle of the creeds. The records of geographical and scientific
discovery are also more powerful in riveting the attention and exciting
the imagination. But, if our subjects deal in the main with the peaceful
progress and economic well-being of nations, and are outside the realm
of the startling and the sanguinary, they do at times supply material
for stories which might interest the most devoted students of Newgate
calendars and detectives' experiences. As illustrating this phase of
banking, we shall narrate a few conspicuous instances of crime which
occurred towards the close of the eighteenth and in the early part of
last century, merely premising that the full details of the second story
were never judicially established.

Crimes in connection with
banking in Scotland are mostly confined to forgeries; but, although
robberies have not been very numerous, some of those which have occurred
are rather remarkable. While not an event of the "first magnitude," the
robbery of the head office of the Dundee Banking Company was attended by
some remarkable features, not least of which was the number of persons
tried, condemned, and punished for the offence, while, from beginning to
end, the question of their guilt was matter of grave doubt.

The building in which the
bank office was situated served a triple purpose, being primarily the
public jail, but also containing the guildhall, as well as accommodating
the bank. A common entrance gave access to them from the street, the
bank being on the street level, with the guildhall immediately above it.
The utilitarianism of this conjoint arrangement was surpassed by the
Arcadian simplicity which dispensed with any nightly resident on the
premises. When the bank closed on Saturday, 16th February 1788, the
premises were left under the charge of the jailor, who, having
subsequently shut up his prisoners as sheep in their fold, locked the
outer door at ten o'clock, and betook himself to more felicitous scenes.
The bank office was thus left to solitude, and the proximity of the
imprisoned, but unguarded, rascality of the town.

Next morning (Sunday)
Peter Stewart, the said jailor, was roused from his balmy slumbers
"about eight o'clock, by two boys, to look at a woman who was making a
great noise," when he experienced a sensation similar to that of the
keeper of the prison at Philippi when he awakened out of his sleep and
saw the prison doors open. But like him, also, the Dundee jailor had
assurance that his charges were safe. As stated in his evidence at the
trial, "he found one leaf of the great gate forced open, which made him
afraid lest the prison was broke; but he found it safe. He, however,
found the door of the guildhall half open, and a hole made in the floor.
He also saw an iron pinch at the side of the hole. He immediately went
and told the keeper of the guildhall and the deputy-cashier (or teller)
of the bank." On proceeding to the scene, the teller (William Watson)
looked through the hole in the floor, which was immediately above the
bank, and saw that his drawers in the office below had been broken open.
In these drawers he had left about £1000, which is another illustration
of the happy-go-lucky way in which they managed affairs in the good old
times.

Mr. Robert Jobson, the
cashier (or manager), was then called, and an examination of the bank
office made. Of the teller's cash, amounting to £998: 13s., notes, gold,
silver, and copper, to the amount of £423: 7: 6 were gone; but
apparently the rest had been overlooked. The manager's room, which
constituted the treasure vault, was found locked; but the key, "which
was usually left in the teller's room" (another happy instance of
sublime confidence), "was carried off." The door being of iron, "they
were obliged to get a smith, with a mason, to force it open, which took
up about two hours." Fortunately all was right within.

The bank immediately
advertised the robbery, and offered a reward of £50 for information; but
it was not immediately forthcoming. According to their minutes, as
quoted by the historion of the bank, the directors, " finding as yet no
prospect of a recovery of the money, nor even of a discovery of the
perpetrators, ordered the above sum to be placed to the debit of profit
and loss." However, a tailor called Macdonald, who afterwards played the
role of chief informer, professed to be able to reveal the mystery; but,
owing to his reticence, nothing could at the time be made of him. One
man, Harris or Herries, was arrested, but, being found innocent, was
liberated. In the August following, two men, Bruce and Falconar, were
tried in the High Court of Justiciary, Edinburgh, for the crime. The
jury having by a majority found them guilty, they were sentenced to be
hanged. Owing to doubts regarding their guilt, the sentence was twice
respited. Meantime, other three men, Dick, Willox, and Howie, were
arrested, and tried at Edinburgh in November. The libel was found not
proven against Willox and Howie, but Dick was found guilty and sentenced
to be hanged. Doubts again arising, however, a respite was given in his
case also to allow of further inquiry.

Alexander Macdonald, the
original informant, whose character was, at both trials, spoken of as
very bad, was examined at great length. He asserted that the plot had
been hatching from the middle of the previous year, when Dick, Willox,
Falconar, and Bruce, "complaining of want of money, Falconar proposed to
break into Jobson's chest," as they facetiously called the bank office.
Consultations went on from time to time, and they made him take an oath
which, he was told, they had all sworn, to wit," If I make a discovery,
may I never have any share in the blood of Christ." On the night of the
robbery they made him promise to go with them; but he made an excuse to
return first to his house, "having nothing on him but his shirt." Later,
along with a woman and two men, he went to the place, and going up the
stair of the guildhall, saw all the men named, and Howie in the hall.
Dick and Bruce were lowering Falconar, by means of a rope, through the
hole in the floor. He narrated other details which tended to confirm his
evidence, but which must be passed over here. "During the time they were
all laughing like to split their sides." Returning to the street,
Macdonald and the people with him, from the shadow of the pillars,
watched the five thieves leave the premises. They had apparently been
scared by a woman screaming; but whether this was the disturbance which
caused the boys to rouse the jailor from his well-earned repose or not
we are not informed.

A great amount of
evidence was taken which seemed to confirm Macdonald's tale, but it does
not appear that the others who saw the proceedings explicitly identified
the prisoners. Notwithstanding the respites which had been granted, the
sentence on Bruce and Falconar was carried out at Edinburgh, on 24th
December. Consistently throughout they denied all knowledge of the
crime. According to a contemporary account, "their behaviour on the
scaffold was devout, serious, and becoming; and in their address to the
Almighty they implored forgiveness to those by whose testimony they had
been untimely cut off." Dick was fortunate enough to obtain a pardon.
The witness Macdonald soon came to a bad end. He was tried and condemned
to transportation a year later for forging a bill. This raised doubts as
to his former evidence; but he vehemently asserted in Court that Bruce
and Falconar had been guilty of the robbery. On his way to Botany Bay he
was hanged on board ship for mutiny. Nearly a year later another
malefactor, under sentence of death for robbery, asserted that he was
the actual perpetrator of the Dundee Bank robbery. A respite was granted
for three weeks to allow of inquiry; but as it appeared he had
fabricated the story to escape his fate, his sentence was carried out.
With his latest breath, however, he asserted that Falconar, Bruce, and
Dick, were innocent of the robbery.

So ended this melancholy
episode, regarding which one has an uneasy feeling of uncertainty as to
the justice of the sentence on the unhappy prisoners.

Late in the afternoon of
the 13th November 1806, a young Edinburgh sailor, whose ship had come
into Leith, started from the latter town to visit his mother and sister
in the Netherbow. Although described at a later period as "a very
industrious good man," on the present occasion lie displayed that
elasticity of conscience which is too frequently shown by people of the
present time in their dealings with the revenue departments. He was
taking home "a small present "from foreign parts, of a contraband
description. Leith Walk, which formed the main part of his route, was
very different then from what it is now. Its location and extent were
precisely the same, but it was dark and desolate. As he walked on, he
saw two men before him. One was tall, and carried a yellow bag; the
other was dressed in black. The men were not together. The last
mentioned was "dogging" the other—crossing from one side of the Walk to
the other, as occasion might require, to avoid notice. So steadily did
he pursue his game, that he never observed our sailor lad behind him.
The latter's conscience immediately divined that the carrier of the bag
was a smuggler, who was being tracked by a custom-house officer. His own
guilt, unfortunately, distorted his vision, and enforced on him such
precautions for his own safety as prevented him from detecting—perhaps
preventing—a diabolical crime.

The first man was no
smuggler. He was William Begbie, messenger of the British Linen Company,
and was, in accordance with his usual practice, carrying notes of the
various banks, to the value of £4392, from the Leith branch to the head
office, to be exchanged next day. There is reason to believe that the
man who was following him was James Afackcoull, a London villain of the
blackest dye; but of such dexterity that, even in his grossest and most
daring crimes, he almost invariably escaped detection. Ile seemed to
find the comparatively unsophisticated people of Edinburgh as good game;
for he paid them repeated visits, which only terminated when his
quarters got too hot for him. On the present occasion he had lodgings in
New Street, Canongate, but usually spent the day among the Leith
taverns. He was now on his way home; but, whether or not he had
previously planned the scheme, he turned his present opportunity to the
uses of his profession, which was that of pickpocket, thief, receiver of
stolen goods, and vendor of stolen bank notes.

The three dramatis
personæ, at respectful distances from one another, proceeded up the Walk
and up Leith Street. Here Begbie appears to have at once crossed Princes
Street, to go up the North Bridge. Mackcoull was too great a professor
of the light-fingered art to seem to follow. The east end of Princes
Street, although then a quiet place as compared with its present bustle,
was not a spot for privacy. The Theatre-Royal stood where the General
Post Office now stands; and Shakespeare Square, with its roystering
taverns and oyster cellars, was built around it. Instead of following
his victim directly, he turned along Princes Street, in front of the
Register Office. It may be that his guilty thoughts pictured a tragic
scene, of which he might well be aware from his frequent visits to the
city, enacted within a stone's throw of the spot where he stood and
gazed around, to make sure he was unobserved; for in that thoroughfare
which is now called West Register Street, but which then was a Kirk
Lane, a tutor had cruelly murdered his two young charges. He thought
himself unseen—although he was a licentiate of the Church, it may be
presumed he did not think of his Maker's eye —but his deed was witnessed
from Moultrie's Hill, on which St. James' Square was afterwards built,
the view being at that time uninterrupted by buildings. Taken
red-handed, he was lynched on the spot, which, after him, was named
Gabriel's Place. [Part of the roadway still exists, and bears the name
Gabriel's Road. A tree under which, according to tradition, the deed was
done, stood in the south-east corner of the grounds of the Royal Bank,
until it was blown down a few years ago.]

When our sailor friend
observed the "customhouse officer" look about him, "he hove-to and
watched him" (to use his own words), as he feared he might be looking
for him. However, the "officer" shortly followed his victim up the
bridge, and both were soon lost to sight in the darkness; for it must be
remembered that the streets were then very ineffectually lighted with
oil lamps. The sailor then slowly pursued his way, which lay in the same
direction, and saw nothing of the two men. He reached the High Street,
and turned down towards the Canongate. When he came to Tweeddale's
Close, in which the office of the British Linen Co. was situated, he was
surprised and alarmed by seeing the "custom-house officer" run out of
the entry with something under his coat. In the excitement of the
moment, he seems to have lost his presence of mind; for he could not
afterwards tell which way the "officer" went. Rushing to his mother's
house, which was close at hand, he stayed only to leave his contraband
present, which had so disturbed his peace of mind, and hastily returned
to his ship, imagining he had narrowly escaped detection of his
smuggling.

Next day the city learnt
that William Begbie, messenger of the British Linen Company's Bank, had
been fatally stabbed in Tweeddale's Close, and robbed of bank-notes to
the value of £4392, Lord Cockburn, who was counsel for the Paisley Union
Bank in a subsequent action against Mackcoull, says, "he was found with
a knife in his heart, and a piece of paper, through which it had been
thrust, interposed between the murderer's hand and the blood "—so
premeditated was the deed. Fear of the discovery of his own illegal
doings seems to have sealed the sailor's lips. His ship left Leith
within a few days, and he did not return to Scotland for years. Various
apprehensions were made, but the guilty person was never identified.
Later investigations tended to point out Mackcoull as the perpetrator;
but his death appears to have interrupted the successful prosecution of
these inquiries. The large notes of which Begbie had been robbed were
subsequently found in a hole in a wall in the grounds of Bellevue. It is
supposed they were placed there by Mackcoull on his return to
Edinburgh—he had left his lodgings in New Street immediately after the
murder occurred —when he felt himself unable safely to dispose of them
for value. It is, perhaps, but just to add that Lord Cockburn's judicial
mind was not satisfied with the evidence as to Mackcoull's guilt.

Some years after the sad
event we have just narrated, a still more extraordinary, though happily
less horrible, crime was perpetrated on the banking community. Early in
May 1811, three travellers arrived in Glasgow. The oldest, and seemingly
the ruling spirit of the party, was a man under fifty years of age, of
average height, stout, with ruddy round face, in which were set large,
sharp, dark eyes. He gave his name as James Moffat, and is said to have
been "somewhat like a gentleman." Neither of his companions was so
striking in appearance. The more respectable-looking of the two was
about Moffat's height; the other was thinner and taller, and was dressed
like a mechanic. They answered respectively to the names of Stone and
Down. Moffat said they were his cousins. The three had left London by
post-chaise, and finished their journey by mail coach. Presenting
themselves at the house of a widow, named Stewart, who kept lodgings at
the Broomielaw, where she lived with her son and niece, they secured
rooms for a fortnight, and seemed to live a quiet and retired life.

They early contracted a
habit of leaving the house about ten o'clock at night, for about a
couple of hours. This, it would seem, was at that period a very unusual
time for citizens of St. Mungo to be abroad; but, our friends being
Londoners, and seemingly of irreproachable character, no surprise was
excited. In these circumstances, it can hardly be wondered that the
mysterious disappearance of a small chamber organ from the house should
have been attributed by the good widow to some inscrutable dispensation
of providence, which had no connection with her respected English
guests. We do not mean to say they stole it. Such an insignificant
article could not excite their cupidity. But, having a use for its
pewter pipes, or rather for the metal itself, they simply did as all
great men have done since the world began—they made use of the materials
that lay readiest to their hands. However, at best, this is a mere minor
part of the business.

As our readers will
suspect the character and intentions of our heroes, and as they are
already acquainted with the most important member of the party, it is as
well, perhaps, that we should introduce each in proprid persond. James
Moffat, then, was no other than the old custom-house officer who gave
the sailor boy such a fright, and did worse damage still, if all tales
be true, to his own soul and poor Begbie's body on the same occasion. He
had formed a great plan, and taken to himself two other spirits, who, if
less wicked than he, were only so from want of similar natural talents.
Their real names, or those at least by which they were principally known
to the police, were Harry French and Houghton (or Huffey, as he was
colloquially termed) White. They were as precious a pair of villains as
remained unhanged. Indeed, White (the "Down" of the present episode) had
been specially rescued from the hulks, for the purposes of the present
expedition, on account of his mechanical knowledge. The great design
which Mackcoull had elaborated was the robbery of the Glasgow Branch of
the Paisley Union Bank.

The office which formed
the subject of the trio's attentions was situated in Ingram Street,
occupying the street floor of a corner house, there being separate
warerooms above, and cellars below. It consisted of two rooms, in the
inner of which was a vault or closet, with an iron door, which formed
the strong room of the branch. Many a time, during May and June, had the
three robbers reconnoitred the premises —more particularly during the
silent time after ten o'clock at night, when the worthy and
unsophisticated inhabitants had retired to rest. At first they had
thought that a fortnight would suffice to effect their purpose; but the
keys which they had procured from a confederate locksmith in London
would not suit. The old-fashioned simple locks baffled burglars who were
accustomed to more scientific guards, so Mackcoull set off for London
(under pretence of going to Liverpool), to have keys made under his own
supervision. White manufactured a key from the pewter pipes of the
musical box, probably to get the impression of the wards of the locks.
After Mackcoull's return, a little adjustment of the keys seems to have
given complete command of the premises. It was now the beginning of
July, and, according to notice they had previously given, they left
their lodgings, with the ostensible object of going to Bristol. Where
they did go does not appear. It would seem, however, that they purposely
delayed the execution of the robbery until the Fair week, when the
presence of a heterogeneous crowd of questionable characters might serve
to divert attention from them.

On Saturday, 13th July
1811, business went on as usual at the branch office. Four o'clock came.
Mr. Likely, the cashier, and other officers, had taken their departure;
and Mr. Hamilton, the teller, handed over his cash to John Thomson, the
porter. On the arrival of a box of retired notes, amounting to about
£4000, from the bank's correspondents in Edinburgh —Sir Wm. Forbes &
Co.—the porter locked it, with the teller's cash, into the safe, shut up
the office, and took the keys to the house of Mr. Templeton, the
manager. We have here a charming glimpse of bank office management in
the olden time. One does not know whether most to admire the mutual
confidence displayed by the staff from the highest to the lowest, or to
envy the social conditions that permitted the total absence of
supervision in the transference of cash. Sunday passed, no doubt with
prolonged doctrinal disquisitions, slightly interspersed with discordant
tunes, and added to by domestic catechisings in semi - solitary
confinement, amid repressed desires for the return of Monday. The
morning came at last, and John Thomson got the bank keys, and opened the
office as usual. He unlocked the safe to get out the teller's cash, and
then he witnessed a spectacle which must have produced in him sensations
more easy to imagine than to describe. The lid of the Edinburgh box was
broken, and the remittance had disappeared. The cash drawers had been
forced, and their contents abstracted. Everything in the shape of cash,
including some base coin, was gone. The bank since Saturday was minus
£19,753 : 4s.

Sunday morning had been a
busy time with the interesting trio; but it is left to the imagination
to picture their modus operandi. They had been seen in the Gallowgate on
Friday the 12th July—the day preceding the robbery—but there is no other
record of their movements until after the great event was accomplished.
A certain David Clachar, who was early astir, saw the three "sitting on
a dyke at the corner of Stirling's Road," not far from the bank. They
had a large bundle with them, from which they took a parcel of notes,
and counted them. They also counted silver coin; and then packing up,
proceeded towards the heart of the city. There they procured, with some
difficulty, a post-chaise, in which they left for Edinburgh, urging the
postboy to speed, on the plea that Mackcoull had a brother at the point
of death, whom he earnestly desired to see. Posting thus, early on the
Sunday morning, and changing horses at Airdrie and Uphall, they drove
into Edinburgh. They dismissed the chaise at the west end of Princes
Street—just where Dean Ramsay's monument now stands — being anxious to
throw pursuers off the scent. And pursued they speedily were; for no
sooner was the news of the robbery circulated, than Clachar and others
put the bank authorities on the trail. But the robbers had a good start,
of which they did not fail to avail themselves. They were not the sort,
however, to neglect their personal comfort. They had regaled themselves,
at each stage, with drinking and smoking. Mackcoull, who was well
acquainted with Edinburgh, led the way to M'Cousland's St. Andrew Tavern
in Rose Street, which he had formerly frequented when he lodged in that
street. There they dined—no doubt sumptuously. During afternoon church
services they appear to have slipped unnoticed, through the deserted
streets, to the Black Bull Inn in Leith Street, then the great centre of
the mail coach routes. There they hired another chaise, and proceeded by
Haddington and the usual stages to London, taking four horses after they
crossed the Border. Their pursuers followed them with great activity;
but the necessity for inquiry at every stage gave the villains more than
the full advantage of their start. Mackeoull and his associates got to
their villainous haunts without interruption. The London police,
however, succeeded in arresting French and White; but, by a most
extraordinary system of negotiation, Mackcoull managed to save himself,
and secure about £8000 of the booty. Through his wife he negotiated a
treaty with the authorities, by which he agreed to give up what was left
of the money, on condition that the offence would be overlooked, and
that his accomplices would be saved from the sentence of death to which
they were liable for escaping from the hulks. The amount he gave up,
however, was only £11,941. He had the audacity, some years later, to
come to Leith and purchase bills on London with the stolen notes, and,
when arrested, to sue the Paisley Union Bank for the amount of the bills
then taken from him. Strange to say, after prolonged litigation, he very
nearly won his case. But at last, his guilt was fully established at the
concluding sederunt of his case; and he was arrested, tried, and
condemned to death on the criminal charge. A reprieve was granted,
however, and he died in the county jail in Edinburgh, on 22nd December
1820, after enduring a period of great mental agony. White was
afterwards executed for robbing a mail coach.

Another robbery, [See
Historical Sketches of the Town and Harbours of Greenock, D. Campbell,
Greenock, 1879, vol. i.] bearing some resemblances to the one just
narrated, occurred seventeen years later. In this case too, the
operators were London burglars, whose modus operandi shows a scientific
finish contrasting strikingly with the criminal manners of the natives
as exemplified by the Dundee Bank robbery already described. Indeed, it
must be admitted that in all departments of the light-fingered arts, the
Scotch could not hold a candle to their metropolitan confreres; and,
seemingly, the latter do not appear ever to have considered it worth
their while to seek their assistance.

This crime was the
robbery of the Greenock Bank on Sunday, 9th March 1828. The office
consisted of two apartments on the street floor of the Assembly Rooms,
entering by the first door on the right hand of the hall of the
building. Further in, on the left, was a newsroom, which, even at that
early period of the century, was open on the Sabbath day—a circumstance
which facilitated the depredation; for, had the outer door of the
building been shut, the scheme would have required even bolder and more
precarious efforts than the policy of the "open door" necessitated.

The enterprise was very
carefully arranged. Having paid Greenock the compliment of selection for
their attentions, the thieves, in the preceding June, deputed one of
their number—Henry Sanders, or Saunders (which, it must be confessed,
has a somewhat Scottish sound)—to reconnoitre. For the occasion,
however, he assumed the name of Eldin, perhaps out of regard for a
facetious Edinburgh judge of the time. His practised eye readily saw
that the weak points of the Greenock Bank's position rendered it the
most suitable for their attentions. Having satisfied himself as to the
object of attack, he departed from the scene, probably to consult with
his colleagues; but doubtless also because the early and late sunlight
of the northern summer made it necessary to delay proceedings until the
winter supplied the facility of darkness for their enterprise.

We accordingly find that,
on 23rd November 1827, Mr. Eldin returned to his old landlady, bringing
a companion with him. They were received joyfully, for Mr. Eldin had
been a most quiet, regular, and respectably living man. This style of
life was resumed. The lodgers were evidently men of the most sedate—not
to say stoical—character. They went to bed at 10, and rose at 5.30,
going out every morning to bathe in the salt sea waves at 6 o'clock
although it was winter-time; at least they said so—it is not recorded
that they were ever seen in the water. Indeed, traducers of their
characters insinuate that they employed these early hours to take
impressions of the bank locks. It seems that was the only time when no
one was on the premises; the messenger, Robert Love, after sleeping in
the bank, with his bed against the safe door, going to his home round
the corner, probably to get his breakfast; but, as it is more touchingly
expressed in the history of the transaction, "to say good-morning to his
wife." However that may be, he had a further expedition in view—for
every morning, Sunday included, he attended to his interests as
contractor for the mail communications between Greenock and Largs, by
seeing to the starting of his gig with a small boy as driver. This then
was the only time our interesting acquaintances had for making their
bank inspection. It was not perhaps as thorough an inspection as
official inspectors are wont to make; but, if they did not overhaul the
securities for advances to customers, they secured an advance
themselves, and verified the cash balance.

But we are anticipating.
For after a stay of seventeen days the two scoundrels left Greenock, for
the purpose, it was conjectured, of improving their false keys. Their
absence was, however, of short duration, and on their return to their
old landlady they stayed until 7th January 1828. The worthy lady was
confirmed in her good opinion of her lodgers by discovering that they
were ironmongers; for, from a cupboard, she heard them filing and
clinking metal most industriously. It remained, however, a subject of
debate between her and a gossip whether they were in the cutlery or
Britannia metal line. But the ladies seem to have had no shadow of doubt
as to their being true as steel. They now took to rather a roving life,
staying sometimes at one inn and sometimes at another; with occasional
disappearances from the town. Thus, laboriously, did they study their
enterprise, moving from place to place that they might more thoroughly
observe the movements of the denizens of the building, and visiting
accomplices to get their keys more delicately adjusted.

At last, after about nine
months' preparation, the great enterprise is fixed for the morning of
Sabbath, 9th March. On the preceding evening the conspirators bade adieu
to their host of the George Inn, but they could not tear themselves away
from the town of their adoption without some keepsake for remembrance.
So they lay perdu in the town until early morn. The same evening two
confederates arrived in separate gigs; and, no doubt, a full council of
war would be held to settle final details. The weather was propitious,
in so far that it was of so boisterous a description that people were
too much absorbed in looking to their own protection to pay heed to the
movements of the couple, even if the good people of Greenock had been of
a suspicious turn of mind.

On the eventful morning,
Robert Love arose from his sentinel slumbers. The conscientious
historian relates that he dressed himself, which might almost have been
taken for granted; but he says not a word as to ablutions, a detail for
which a voucher would not have been amiss. The porter was, however, of
sufficiently tidy habits to tuck away his bed and bedding into a corner
where they were wont to lie out of sight during the hours of business.
Leaving the key of the bank at his house round the corner, he proceeded
to his duties in connection with His Majesty's mails, and to
conversation with his friends, which the comparative freedom of the
Sabbath permitted.

Meanwhile the opportunity
for which the miscreants had plotted for nine months had come, and the
preconceived arrangements were put in action. The two gigs were in
waiting in different streets adjacent to, but out of sight of the bank.
The second of the two chief actors (who was endowed with a squint, which
seems to have been his principal recommendation, as it enabled him to
see things when it was supposed he was looking in a different direction,
and who is represented as a lily-livered creature) went in trembling to
the newsroom and kept the attendant there looking up the Jamaica papers
for a report of a fictitious accident to an imaginary relative, whose
ship, he said, had foundered in the Gulf of Mexico. Under cover of this
feint, the judge's namesake opened the bank door with his false key;
and, entering, soon got access to the treasure of the bank. Not content
with the coin, amounting to £1661 : 15 : 6, Mr. Eldin annexed all the
notes in the chest. These amounted to £28,354 of the bank's own issue,
and £4100:13s. of notes of other banks. These he crammed into two great
travelling bags; and, throwing a large cloak about him, carrying booty
to the value of £34,116 : 8: 6, he evacuated the premises. Gaining one
of the gigs he stowed cargo, and jumping up beside the confederate
driver they started, at a rapid rate, for Glasgow. his craven-hearted
lieutenant, leaving his phantom relative's fate to the further
researches of the kindly librarian, followed so hastily that his gig
actually overtook that of his chief.

Reaching Edinburgh, they
succeeded early on Monday morning in cashing some of the notes at Sir
William Forbes', the Royal, and the British Linen Banks to the amount of
about £4800. The teller at the Bank of Scotland, however, was not so
easily hoodwinked, and refused the business. So, fearing that further
delay might be dangerous, they hired a post-chaise and made for the
south with their plunder. Arrived in London they declared a dividend of
the entire profits of the undertaking, and dissolved partnership;
rejoicing doubtless no less in the pride of their skill than in the
material result of so perilous an expedition. And it must be admitted
that, if an evil deed can be so described, it was well done.

The sequel was very
remarkable. By private negotiations, through a thieves' lawyer, more
than half of the stolen money was recovered. It was arranged that a
single representative of the bank was to wait in a hackney coach at a
secluded spot. This was done, and there a porter delivered to him a box
which was afterwards found to contain about £20,000 of the stolen notes.
The consideration for this restitution (which, it may be noticed, was
the giving up by the thieves of what entailed more danger than
prospective profit in the retention) was that prosecution proceedings,
on the part of the bank, should be dropped. Here the matter would have
ended had not the Lord Advocate instituted inquiries. As it was, our
friend Mr. Eldin was laid by the heels, brought to Glasgow, and tried
six months after the robbery. The jury, however, brought in a verdict of
"not proven," and the prisoner was discharged; Lord Meadowbank, who
presided, clearly indicating his suspicions. Indeed, the evidence,
though circumstantial, reads so clearly adverse to the prisoner, that it
is surprising that he escaped. But he was a clever rogue.

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